The Oregon hills have me hanging
hanging by a thread
between unending solitude
and visions of the dead.

California caressed me,
worked its way into my head,
then gave me morbid mornings
and nights of dreary dread.

It seems this road will never end.
When it does, another begins.
I'm sick of measuring mirth and money,
solitude and sin.

So I slip into angel gear
for each freed, forgotten fear,
for each irrepressible tear
you've given me each year.

They say you're living with my mother now,
playing cribbage as you talk about me,
completing crossword puzzles
along with your Irish coffee.

It must be very warm there -
I know 'cause it once was my home.
I know what I am missing.
I know why I'm alone.

It seems this road will never end.
When it does, another begins.
I'm tired of measuring mirth and money,
solitude and sin.

So I slip into angel gear
for each freed, forgotten fear,
for each irrepressible tear
you've given me each year.

I remember the last night I came to you
to tell you the judge set me free.
The way your eyes fell when you heard those words
took all that was left of me.

That door opened and closed too quickly,
but the full moon above me shone
through the rich black blanket of heaven
and I slept in my truck all alone.

It seems this road will never end.
When it does, another begins.
I'm tired of measuring mirth and money,
sanity and sin.

So I slip into angel gear
for each freed, forgotten fear,
for each irrepressible tear
you've given me each year.

Washington awaits with watery skies,
with road signs made of lies,
bright lights and well-worn railroad ties,
all of which remind me of your eyes.

Yeah, I know I said I'd buy you a house
spent the money on dope instead
and I could never argue
when you told me I'd be better off dead.

It seems this road will never end.
When it does, another begins.
I'm tired of measuring mirth and money,
solitude and sin.

So I slip into angel gear
for freed, forgotten fear,
for each irrepressible tear
you've given me each year.

Don't talk to me about luck
I don't give a fuck.
There's nothing left but me and this truck
and soon we'll both be gone.

Don't talk to me about luck
I don't give a fuck.
Soon there'll be nothing left of me or this truck
and you'll sweep out the ashes at dawn.